


In Every Peril

by tabru



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 09:20:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13633359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabru/pseuds/tabru
Summary: From the moment Túrin first met Beleg, he had been fascinated by Doriath's greatest warrior. At some point, however, fascination had become wanting, and wanting had become love. But why would Beleg Cúthalion ever choose to bind himself to a hopeless mortal barely out of his boyhood?





	In Every Peril

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Burning_Nightingale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Nightingale/gifts).



_Then Túrin bowed before them, and took his leave. And soon after he put on the Dragon-helm, and took arms, and went away to the north-marches, and was joined to the elven-warriors who there waged unceasing war upon the Orcs and all servants and creatures of Morgoth. Thus while yet scarcely out of his boyhood his strength and courage were proved; and remembering the wrongs of his kin he was ever forward in deeds of daring, and he received many wounds by spear or arrow or the crooked blades of the Orcs._  
_But his doom delivered him from death; and word ran through the woods, and was heard far beyond Doriath, that the Dragon-helm of Dor-lómin was seen again. Then many wondered, saying: ‘Can the spirit of any man return from death; or has Húrin of Hithlum escaped indeed from the pits of Hell?’_  
_One only was mightier in arms among the march-wardens of Thingol at that time than Túrin, and that was Beleg Strongbow; and Beleg and Túrin were companions in every peril, and walked far and wide in the wild woods together._  
_—The Children of Húrin_

**In Every Peril**

The feathered shaft of the arrow brushed against Túrin’s cheek as he released it, sailing towards its intended mark. With a hollow thud, the arrow struck the great oak too high, the target untouched. Biting back a growl of frustration, he notched another arrow and lifted the bow once more, but before he could loose it, Beleg’s voice from behind called: “Keep your elbow up!”

Túrin half-turned towards him, keeping bow and arrow at the ready. “Back so soon? That was a short visit.”

Beleg smiled at him as he came closer, his clothing clean and his face and mood refreshed. “I feared what I’d come back to if I lingered in Menegroth much longer,” he said. “No doubt you’d have gotten yourself killed if I delayed my return.”

It was Beleg’s way of saying _I missed you_ , Túrin knew that, and yet he still bristled at the implication that he couldn’t care for himself. How much longer would it take to prove to everyone that he was no longer a boy? Turning once again to his mark, he raised his right elbow higher and released the arrow. It hit the target—a life-sized, wooden troll tied to an oak tree—with a resounding _thwack_!

Túrin looked over his shoulder at Beleg, motioning to the arrow sticking out of the wooden troll’s leg. “Perhaps you didn’t need to return so quickly after all. I can handle myself.”

Beleg smiled again, his eyes glinting. “You think a shot to the leg is enough to stop a troll? No, you’ve only made it angry, son of Húrin.”

And Before Túrin could respond, Beleg’s great bow was in his hands and he was firing an arrow of his own towards the troll, quick as lightning, hitting the target between the eyes with such force that the wooden face splintered.

Túrin could watch Beleg do that all day and never grow tired of it: the smoothness of his motions, the intense look in his eyes, the straight line of his body, tall and strong, taut as his bowstring. The Elf was the very definition of grace and beauty, and ever since Túrin had arrived in Doriath as a small child, he’d tried to emulate that grace and beauty for himself. It was proving an impossible task.

“I can still beat you at sword-fighting,” Túrin grumbled, letting his bow and quiver fall unceremoniously to the ground as he turned from the archery pitch towards the main house. Beleg fell into step beside him.

“Faston says it’s been quiet during my absence,” Beleg said.

“Yes,” Túrin replied. “No need for you to have worried for me after all.” He failed to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Beleg caught his arm. “I _do_ worry for you, _mellon_ , as friends should and as friends do. But that does not mean I think you incompetent or unskilled in battle. Indeed, mostly I feared I’d come back to find you’d killed all the Orcs of Ered Gorgoroth. And then what would I do with myself? Hunt sheep?”

Túrin allowed a smile to tug at his mouth, small and reluctant, but there all the same. These days, only Beleg could make him smile so, and the mental image of the great Cúthalion chasing a flock of unsuspecting sheep through a field with Belthronding was too amusing to resist.

“That would be a sight to see,” Túrin said, relaxing a little as he fell into the familiar companionship that had grown between him and the Elf. “How did you find the king and queen?”

“They are well, as always,” Beleg said. “They’ve asked about you. No doubt they worry about you more than I. The king asks if you’re happy.”

“What did you say to him?” Túrin asked warily.

“I told him that you’ve never been happier! That at dawn, you greet the morning with a song of joy, that you spend the day singing, all the animals in the forest are your friends, and you’ve decided you don’t want to fight Orcs and Easterlings anymore, but would rather befriend all the creatures of the— _ai_!” Beleg finished with an exaggerated yelp as Túrin struck him lightly on the shoulder.

“You did not say these things,” Túrin said. “Tell me true, what did you say?”

“No, I did not say those things,” Beleg admitted. “The queen would know I was lying if I had. I told them the truth: that you fight each day to avenge your people, that your skill in battle is unmatched by any—save myself, of course—and that I fear you will never be truly happy.”

Túrin looked away from Beleg, towards the north. “I will be happy when Morgoth’s kingdom crumbles into the dust and my people once more live in peace.”

“And when shall that be?” Beleg asked sadly. “Not in your lifetime, I fear.”

Túrin felt something dark and cold creep into his heart at Beleg’s words: a hopeless fear, a dread deeper than the sea, an anger hotter than the fires of the earth. All the fighting he did, all his many wounds received in battle, all his grief and suffering, would they all be for naught?

“Come,” Beleg said, shaking him from the black despair that threatened to drown him, “I’ve not eaten since leaving Menegroth. We’ll have our supper, and sing our songs, and tell what tales there are to tell with our friends, for I fear this brief respite our enemy has given us will not last long, and we must not squander it.”

***

The lodgings of the march-wardens were well-furnished and homey: a row of rustic cabins nestled in the northernmost eaves of Neldoreth. Though they’d never been intended as permanent dwellings, the Sindar had spared no skill or craft in making them as fair as any Elven home could be. The wooden rails were carved in the likenesses of trees and animals, the roofs laid with leaf-shaped shingles, and the windows set with painted glass that depicted images from stories and histories. And at sunset, the dark red wood of the cabins and their painted windows shone like flames in the fading light.

The greatest of these houses was Beleg’s house, taller and longer than the others. In the middle of his house was set a great brazier, above which the ceiling was open to the sky, and during the evening meal, on days when the fighting wasn’t going on, all the Elves gathered around the fire there and sang and drank and told tales beneath the stars. Túrin usually joined them, sitting at Beleg’s side, though he rarely spoke or offered a song or tale of his own to tell. He was content instead to listen and to think.

That night, the fire dancing before his eyes, his thoughts travelled far away, to his mother, to the sister he’d never seen, to the sister he’d lost, to his father. The songs of the Elves seemed almost inappropriately merry in the face of his gloomy mood, and indeed their laughter did nothing to lighten it: their joy nothing but a scale with which he now measured his own grief.

And Beleg, sitting beside him, almost touching him, was in that moment the greatest grief of all. For his joy was unmarred and his spirit unbent, and what could Túrin add to that blessed, immortal life but sadness and regret? What could Túrin give that Beleg did not already possess? What could Beleg possibly want of a mortal man barely out of his boyhood?

Túrin finished his mead, grabbed another, and stood from the circle, the others hardly noticing as he left the house. The night air was cold and sharp as a knife, but the drink was warm in his belly and his breath puffed out before him in swirling white clouds. It had snowed recently, and the light of the full moon upon the ground made the world seem almost as bright as day.

After a while, the door to the house opened behind him, golden light spilling out onto the snow like wine from a cup, and Beleg appeared beside him. As always, he was beautiful, more beautiful than anything Túrin had ever seen in his life. Strong and brave and fair as springtime, his silver hair shimmering in the moonlight and his green eyes glittering like sunlight through summer leaves. Túrin wanted to touch him. Instead he finished his drink.

“What brings you out here?” Beleg asked, tilting his head in question. “It’s too cold, even for me." Not true, but Túrin didn't argue. "Come inside.”

“I don’t mind the cold,” Túrin said, wrapping himself tightly in his cloak.

Beleg made no answer at first, merely standing there beside him, close enough to touch. Then after a long moment he said: “My dearest friend, I can see you are unhappy. You must tell me what I can do for you. It pains me to see such sadness and grief each day and yet not know how to help. You must know that I would do anything for you.”

Hearing this sudden confession, Túrin looked up sharply at Beleg. The Elf’s moonlit face was full of earnest concern, his eyes large and dark. Túrin’s empty mead cup fell from his hands, his fingers going numb. He made to pick it up, eager for a distraction, but Beleg caught both his hands in his own, and Túrin’s gaze was drawn back to his face.

“Beleg, I…I don’t believe there is anything anyone can do to help me, be they Man or Elf or Vala.” Beleg shook his head, but before he could respond Túrin continued: “But I do not regret my life here with you, and I would not have you worry for me, nor would I have you pity me.”

“I do not pity you—”

“Perhaps not, but others do,” Túrin said, the taste of the mead that lingered in his mouth turning bitter. “And above all things I cannot— _will not_ —abide that. To be pitied for my fate…I would rather die.”

“You are too proud, son of Morwen,” Beleg said softly.

“Yes,” Túrin said hotly, “I am the son of Morwen, and the son of Húrin, and yes, I am proud, for they are proud, or were, for I know them not anymore, and their fates are hidden from me until the Enemy is defeated. And for their sake and mine I will not be pitied, and no longer will I suffer anyone to treat me as a boy, for I am a man now, as my own people judge, and no longer a lost child in the woods.”

“I know this,” Beleg said, and it was as though his voice grew softer as Túrin’s grew louder. And he was still holding Túrin’s hands in his own. “Is there nothing I may do to help you?”

Túrin sighed. “If you want to help me, then do this: stand with me, fight with me, but do not pity me.”

Beleg squeezed his hands and then released them. “That will do for now.”

A call from the trees high above made them stop and look up: a warning from the ever-vigilant watch of the march-wardens’ camp. And suddenly Beleg’s great bow was in his hand, seemingly produced from thin air, and Túrin was racing towards the armory where his mail, helm, and sword lay waiting.

He put his mail on over his tunic as quickly as he could, throwing a tabard on over the mail, and cinching it all about his waist with a thick, leather belt. Then he took his favorite sword from the rack on the wall and attached the scabbard to his belt, the sword a comforting weight against his left thigh. Elves were running in and out of the armory as well, no one speaking unless it were to pass along curt orders or warnings.

Last of all, Túrin put on the helm: the great Dragon-helm of Dor-lómin, the last and greatest heirloom of his house. It was beautiful and terrible to behold in battle, but it was also heavy to bear and it had taken a while for Túrin to grow used to its weight, in more ways than one. But it was worth it to see the dread in his enemies’ faces as he came charging towards them.

Exiting the armory, he rushed over to the front of the main house to find all the Elven warriors gathered there, ready for battle, their swords and arrow-shafts glittering in the torch-light.

“Who is our enemy tonight?” Túrin asked as he came once more to stand at Beleg’s side. “And how many?”

“Orcs,” Beleg said. “The scout’s report says no more than two score. A small raiding party.”

“We’ll out number them two-to-one then,” Túrin said, letting confidence color his voice and calm his nerves. The helm seemed to settle comfortably on his shoulders in response to this news. “Better odds than usual.”

“Perhaps,” said Beleg, “but do not become overconfident. Our enemy has fooled us before. Be on your guard.” He said this last part loudly for the whole assembly of Elves to hear. The small host of Elves grew quiet as Beleg continued, saying: “They’ve come a long way in winter, these Orcs of Morgoth; let us give them a proper greeting.”

A great battle-cry went up in response to this, and Túrin lowered the helm’s visor down over his eyes, his face hidden from view. At his side, he felt Beleg touch his arm lightly, and he half-turned towards him.

“Stay at my side,” Beleg whispered. “Fight with me.”

Túrin smiled, though no one could see. “Always.”

***

After a successful ambush of their Enemy, Túrin and the Elves of Doriath pursued the Orcs all the way to Iant Iaur, the Old Bridge of Esgalduin. It had been so cold recently that the river had frozen over, and the snow that had fallen recently had disguised where the land ended and the water began. In this, the Elves had the advantage, for they knew this land well and could run with great speed over ice and snow, and they were lightly dressed despite the cold, for it bothered them little. Túrin followed with some difficulty, for he was more heavily armored and dressed for the winter. He also could not run atop the snow as the Elves did and his feet were less certain on the ice. Fortunately, the Orcs were less agile than even Túrin, their plodding feet sinking into snowdrifts and slipping on the frozen river, breaking it in some places.

It was difficult to keep to his promise to stay by Beleg’s side, but somehow Túrin managed to always keep him in sight. And as they fought with the Orcs beneath the ancient Dwarvish bridge, the pursuit over, he was able to fight his way back to the Elf’s side.

“Perhaps you were right to be overconfident!” Beleg called to him, slicing through an Orc with ease and ducking the blow of another.

Túrin didn’t respond—he never did. He rarely spoke during battle, but Beleg never seemed to stop. The Elf talked and laughed and sometimes even sang, other Elves occasionally joining in with him, as though every battle was a delightful game. At first, Túrin had been slightly annoyed by this; war was no mere sport or contest. A battle with the Enemy was a battle against the murderers of his kin and the thieves of his house. Each battle was vengeance for the wrongs done to the House of Hador, to Dor-lómin, to all the Edain who wandered homeless in Beleriand.

And yet, overtime, he had come to almost rely on Beleg’s near-constant, merry chatter, if only to serve as a reassurance that Beleg was still alive and well and fighting. A part of him almost begrudgingly enjoyed it.

The Orc-party was very nearly destroyed, the surviving stragglers running north up the river, sliding and falling in their panic to escape, but the Elves were not willing to let them go in peace. They gave chase once more, straight up the middle of the frozen river, and Túrin followed as best he could. The battle had cracked the ice in some places, and in others places Orcs had fallen straight through to the dark water below. As Túrin ran upon it, he could hear the ice popping and creaking beneath his feet, though the Elves who ran ahead of him seemed unperturbed by this.

Beleg stopped running and turned back towards him, but Túrin waved him on. “Don’t wait for me!” But for the first time since the battle began, the Elf’s face was fearful, and a moment later, Túrin understood why.

He heard it, a crack like a bolt of lightning, and then the ice was gone from beneath Túrin’s feet, and the wind was rushing loud and angry in his ears as he went straight down into the darkness. The ice was above him. The water was above him. He went down, down, all the way under, and for one fleeting moment, felt nothing but a shocked numbness. And then he felt _everything_.

He gasped, and that was a stupid, impulsive mistake, for he was still fully submerged in freezing water, and now it was in his mouth, in his throat, in his nose, in his lungs. He couldn’t hear, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t scream.

Flailing, he found the ice again and managed to pull himself half-way out of the water, spluttering, gasping, struggling to pull air into water-logged lungs. And then the ice to which he clung broke away and he went down again into the frigid blackness, his mail and tabard pulling him further and further down into the depths of the water, the current trying to drag him straight to Mandos.

His frantic, panicked movements were getting him nowhere. _Where was Beleg?_ Túrin had promised to stay at his side, but he’d let Beleg pull ahead in the chase. Would Beleg discover his body? Or would the current drag him out to sea, never to be found?

_Ulmo, if you pity me, if you pity my family, have mercy…_

The water swirled about him in a cyclone so cold and sharp it felt like an assault of knives, cutting at his clothes, his armor, his very skin. The cold was a weapon that flayed him open, ripping him from the inside out, and the water rushed into his very soul. Ulmo was not coming and Beleg could not save him.

He was trapped in a wild, anxious place full of dark figures and shrieks and the ringing of swords. Standing high above him were his parents, watching, still and silent as stone. He could hear Beleg shouting, but he couldn’t reach him in time, couldn’t move. He turned and saw a girl with no face. He knew she was his sister. As he reached for her a voice said _laughter is gone from this place, son of Morwen_. Beleg was shouting again. _Where are you?_ Túrin cried, but he was choking on water. A reptilian tail slithered against his legs. Above him, his parents were gone, Thingol and Melian looming there instead, taller than the mountains. More terrible than the sea. Older than the earth. The sky was coming down to swallow Túrin in blackness. The stars were falling to the earth. The sea was rising to drown the land.

The Orcs grabbed hold of the girl with no face and she screamed and screamed and screamed—

Túrin jolted awake to find Beleg hovering above him. “Beleg,” he gasped, his mouth oddly dry. Hadn’t he just been fighting a mouthful of ice-water? Yet now he was hot, too hot, confined in tightly wrapped blankets and furs.

Beleg touched the side of his face and Túrin pressed his cheek into that touch, savoring the coolness of it, the gentleness. He wanted always to be touched by Beleg.

“You’re burning,” Beleg said, his voice worried.

“It’s too hot,” Túrin agreed, trying to fight his way from the bedding.

“No, no, lie still,” Beleg said, holding him down. “You must rest.”

“I can’t,” he said, shaking his head. “The Orcs…they came…they…they took my sister…”

Beleg peered at him in concern and Túrin felt doubt steal into his mind. That’s what had happened, hadn’t it? “She…she had no face…”

“You were dreaming,” Beleg said. “Your sister is with your mother.”

“No, laughter is gone…and my mother was above me…and my father…but they’re gone now. Gone from my house…” He trailed off, looking about the room. He was in front of the brazier in the main house of the march-wardens. Beleg’s house. He had no idea how he’d gotten here.

“Try to sleep,” Beleg said.

“Who’s screaming?” Túrin asked, a distant shriek on the edge of hearing ringing in his head.

“No one is screaming. You’re tired. Rest.”

Túrin shut his eyes, squeezing them tight against the sound, but the screaming grew louder, and he saw his sister again, running toward him like a startled deer in the woods. His eyes flew open again. “What’s happened? Where is she?”

“It’s nothing,” said Beleg, still sitting by his side. “You drifted off for a moment. You were dreaming again.”

“How…how long have I been…?”

“You’ve been unconscious for a full day,” Beleg said. “I’m glad to see you awake at last, but you should try and rest more. You’re not well.”

“The Orcs were real,” Túrin said, sure of that if nothing else. If he could hold onto reality, separate what was true from what was imagined, perhaps he could fight off the dream and its haunting images. “And I remember the water. But after that…only blackness.”

Beleg drew closer, his hands on his face again. “You disappeared beneath the ice and I feared that…” he stopped, swallowing, as if he’d forgotten momentarily how to speak. “I went in after you, pulled you out, and at first it seemed you were…” Again he stopped.

“Beleg,” Túrin whispered, wanting to reach up and touch him. The world was hazy at the edges of his sight, the fire from the brazier casting strange shadows all around them. Beleg’s face was framed with a silver-gold light, his features blurred and indistinct, but his eyes bright and large and gleaming.

“You made no sound,” Beleg continued, “nor did you move. I feared I’d lost you. And it was…it was too soon. Too soon to say farewell to you. But I pressed on your chest, found the water there, and brought it out. And you breathed again. But you were cold and listless and I feared still that I would lose you.” Then, in a whisper so quiet Túrin almost missed it, he added: “Every day I fear I will lose you.”

“You will never lose me,” Túrin said.

“Yes, I will,” Beleg said, and his voice was sad even as he smiled. “I am no Lúthien, and you are no Beren. A day will come when we will part. And on that day, grief shall be my only companion.”

“Then stay with me while I yet live, and leave me not. For indeed grief has been my only companion for as long as I can remember, but I would have you chase it from my life and take its place at my side. I would bind myself to you.”

Beleg drew away from him, and the glow of the fire and the haze of his fever blurred his eyes so that he could not see Beleg clearly. But he knew he’d been rejected. He knew he’d been a fool. How could he, a mortal man, homeless and at the mercy of Elven charity, hope to bind himself to Beleriand’s greatest warrior? Shame filled him, his illness and his foolishness mocked him, and he turned his face away from the fire, shutting his eyes against the sudden tears that only served to blur his vision even more.

Something cool and wet was pressed to his aching forehead, and to his mortification, the tears which he’d tried to hide slid out from beneath his lashes, running down his face, hot and unchecked.

“My poor friend,” Beleg said softly. “My dearest one. You will be well soon, but for now rest. Sleep in peace and let not your dreams trouble you, for I am here.”

***

Túrin awoke slowly, the pale grey light of dawn chasing away the shadows and phantoms that had plagued him during the night. He felt cold now—not the sharp, excruciating cold of the freezing water, but rather a slow, aching cold, weak and shivering.

“Beleg,” he said into the empty room, his voice almost unrecognizable to his own ears, hoarse and rasping. “Beleg?”

“Here,” the Elf replied, stepping into the house with an armful of wood for the brazier. He set it down to dry by the fire before turning to Túrin. “Your color is better,” he said, kneeling beside him. Túrin barely resisted the urge to curl against him for warmth. “How do you feel?”

“Cold,” he rasped. “And foolish. Last night…I don’t remember all that transpired, but…I said things that were…” He let his voice trail off.

“Yes,” Beleg said. “Things were said.”

Túrin refused to meet his eyes, humiliation rising in himself as the memories of the night before crept slowly back into his mind. He felt Beleg move closer to him, and though his presence and the warmth it brought were both welcome, Túrin’s mortification could not be forgotten or dismissed so lightly.

“I regret I did not answer your proposal last night,” Beleg said, and Túrin cringed in shame.

“I regret that you had to endure that delusional nonsense,” Túrin replied. “My…embarrassing mortal weaknesses—”

“Rather, I regret that I did not say ‘yes’ at once,” Beleg interjected. “I wanted to, but I feared your offer was not freely given, since your mind was confused and delirious. Now I see that my fears were correct. Morning has cleared your thoughts as I knew it would. You see, it is _I_ who was the fool, my friend, to hope that you spoke earnestly despite your illness and delirium.”

Túrin finally found the courage to turn and look at Beleg, glorious, beautiful Beleg, who was staring back at him intently, and though his face was full of sadness, a small hope lingered in his sparkling eyes.

“You would have said yes?” Túrin asked again, not quite believing what he was hearing. “You would bind yourself to me? As a husband to his spouse? You would give your happiness to a mortal, to live together a short span of years, only to watch me die, hopeless of any reunion thereafter? You would doom yourself to eternal widowhood?”

“I am already doomed,” Beleg said. “Even if you were to reject me fully, leave my side this moment and never return, I would still be faced with an eternity without you. If we married, at least then I could have the keeping of happy memories to fill the empty years when mortality at last came between us.”

Túrin sat up—too fast, his vision spinning and the very air seeming to want to press him back down to the pallet on which he lay—and clutched Beleg’s arm. “ _You would have said yes?_ ” He repeated, for it was now the only important question in the world.

“I would have said yes,” Beleg answered, his voice steady, his eyes fixed on Túrin.

Without stopping to think, Túrin pulled Beleg close and pressed their lips together. The whole world was spinning now, the house spiraling down around them, and as Túrin fell back against the pallet, he brought Beleg with him. There was a tongue within the Elf’s mouth, sweet and nimble, and it was driving Túrin mad, all of it was: the weight of Beleg against his chest, the feel of his arms running down his sides, the warmth of his breath on his cheek.

When at last Beleg pulled away, keeping his face very close, his breath hitching in excitement—oh, the sound of it made Túrin shiver with delight—and his taut, lean body lying against Túrin’s own prone form, Beleg said, in a voice full of awe: “Perhaps you are still delirious.”

“Then may I never be well again,” Túrin said, and hungrily pulled Beleg back down upon him.

“For clarity’s sake,” Beleg said, his voice slightly muffled by Túrin’s mouth against his own, “you do want to marry me?”

Túrin laughed in response—a sound so strange and rare it surprised even himself—for he would have thought the answer to that to be obvious, and Beleg laughed, too. And the grey dawn gave way to a golden morning full of promise.

And as they lay side-by-side, joyful and in love, Túrin caught a glimpse of the Dragon-helm sitting like a silent sentinel on a nearby chair. Soon, he would take up that helm once more, and rejoin the fighting, rejoin the war that was his life, yet for now he was content. For now he was at peace.

For now, if _only_ for now, he had Beleg.


End file.
